


A Tribe Betrayed

by TheArchein



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, At least the last chapter is a nice flashback, Character Undeath, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Post-Embrace the Void Ending (Hollow Knight), Wow maybe I should write less depressing stuff but where's the fun in that tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchein/pseuds/TheArchein
Summary: Felled by a wayward knight, the Traitor Lord has once more been given life by the grace of his pale foe. Radiance erased, his followers scattered and slain, the rebellious mantis find himself alone in the world with only one option--to return home. Will his kin accept the one that drew them into civil strife? Or does summary execution await the treasonous insect?
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68





	1. Rebirth

The air of the verdant grounds was calm.

The faint, whispering hum permeating the lands of Unn colored the ambience of the realm. The steady shuffle of shifting tendrils dragging across the lush ground marked the only signs of any animalistic life.

Ironic, then, that it came from a Root.

The rear fringe of her pale-white robe tugged at the vegetation underfoot as she drew herself from the remnants of her grey-clothed constraints. What dead blade of grass she passed, what withered ivy touched her regal figure, grew vibrantly green with life. Choking tangles of vines retracted their dangling stems from the Queen’s path. The vegetal corridor, once meant to obstruct entry to the now-collapsed cocoon, peeled back before Her Grace.

From her sheltered seed had the Root emerged. The verdure of the land bowed once more to the former Queen of the realm.

Diminished in size from her sedentary rooting, diminished in power from the years of willful isolation, the White Lady turned to her vacant kingdom. It seemed the flora had flourished in her absence within the Gardens.

The fauna, not so well.

So corrupted by the Radiance were they, with minds and bodies contorted by pestilence, that Her complete erasure stripped everything from them—breath and blight alike.

The mantids strewn about the Lady’s tendrils had, however, been met with a different fate.

She had wept for a time, cradling the empty body of her knight in the delicate hold of her arms. Dryya, her beloved queen's guard, had selflessly fended off hordes of these insects with her own nail. The knight passed before she could give her lady one final goodbye. She had perished in the name of queen without a throne.

How foolish had she been in isolation, resting idly while her kingdom, her people, her _friends_ fell to ruin? What more than a withered trunk had she become?

But the tree’s power would grow; she was a Higher Being, through and through.

Already was a taste of it visible on the corpses of the departed mantises. Vines began to blanket their husks. Flowers blossomed atop their botanical tombs.

She felt pity for them, adversary or not. To be driven mad beyond control, to lose all dominion over one’s mind—more terrifying a fate was it than the nail that felled them.

Fewer bodies filled the now-fading corridor. Already could she sense the decrepit architecture rusting to ruin; the land was once more returning to Unn. The Queen pressed into open air, escaping the green hall. The passageway once more sealed behind her.

Before the White Lady laid the miraculously still-standing, steel frame of a greenhouse. Its intricate, Hallownestian design was still noticeable under the subtle layer of accrued moss. It was not the greenhouse that caught her attention, however. In the touch of her tendrils, she could feel tall, fang-like markers towering on each side of the structure. The Root surmised her trespassers had erected these posts in proclamation of claimed territory.

But where were the rest of them?

Surely the Infection had not drawn the life out of every one of them. The Queen knew the strength of the Mantis Tribe from long before. Even with the Radiance’s blight excised, she assumed many would have survived the Forgotten One’s demise. Yet not a soul could be felt—until the Queen turned her attention back upon the greenhouse.

No, not a soul, but a ghost.

The translucent specter held over the corpse of its owner. Spheres of glowing Essence drifted up from the dark, cold-azure body of the deceased bug. Taller did this mantis seem in comparison to its counterparts. The carapace of the mantis showed signs of shriveling; perhaps, once, it had been larger too.

The White Lady turned her attention to the lingering spirit. They seemed…fixated, staring out into the vastness of the Gardens. Had they failed to notice her? Or did they intentionally avoid acknowledging her presence?

A flurry of emotions roiled within the ghost. She could sense them all. Pain, anger, hate…sorrow. So much sorrow.

“Why do you still cling to this world?” voiced the White Lady, her light blue, glimmering eyes harboring both curiosity and pity for the mantis.

He answered not.

She could feel his spectral gaze harden in defiance against her. A bitter look glared deep into his once-annexed territory. But she knew this antipathy drew not from their territorial squabble. Another, more stinging hurt singed his body and tore at his mind.

A stain, a regret. 

It kept him anchored to this realm, even in death. It kept the creature from letting go.

The White Lady closed her eyes, releasing a deep exhale in thought. She had every right to ignore this creature. He was one of a multitude that had threatened her kingdom. He was one of a multitude that slaughtered her knight. But so tenaciously did this bug refuse to let go. So ferociously did he refuse to move on.

This specter was more than just an imprint.

Perhaps a second chance would bring peace upon this distraught spirit. Perhaps a deed like this would give peace of mind to the White Lady herself.

The Higher Being’s pale roots slithered against the ground. They fell upon the husk of the mantis, gripping a delicate hold around its body. The Queen’s eyes re-opened, their impaired sights settling once more upon the forlorn ghost.

“I will give to you what you took from my Dryya,” she began, her words mellow and somber. “I will give to you what I could not give her.”

The Root’s radicles glowed a bright, white hue. From within them poured out a nurturing mixture of nutrients and Soul into the carcass. The shriveled form of the mantid regained constitution. Within the mantis did the tree cultivate new life—a life, unlike her offspring, that would persist. She could feel it flickering quietly through the corpse. From a flicker did it grow to a subtle burn, and then a roaring fire. The glimmer of the White Lady’s roots began to dim with the fading of the ghost.

The mantis had once again been given breath.

Withdrawing her tendrils from the body below, the Queen stared down at the insect. Perhaps this act was a sign of things to come. Perhaps she _could_ rekindle the spirit of her kingdom.

Hallownest’s Queen turned from the creature and departed onward through her Gardens, past the thriving overgrowth and the crumbling architecture, to her awaiting realm.

And upon the ground of the greenhouse came the subtle scratch of the Traitor Lord’s claw.

·

The slim figure of the mantis stumbled against the paved flooring. He panted, spared now from further distress. His dark, cyan abdomen bore the scratch marks suffered from his dazed trek out of the labyrinths of thorns below the greenhouse. Alongside the fresh scratches laid deep gashes and lacerations. Healed now, the scars revealed both the physical suffering of his body post-Infection, and the marks of the nail that slayed him.

A deep, strained cough erupted out of the Traitor Lord’s ventral mouth, his figure collapsing down to a knee. He forcibly ended the fit, pressing his weakened body onwards.

He had to carry on.

The Traitor Lord wobbled to a stand once more, black legs inching one after the other. The dull edge of his bone-hued claw brushed against the tattered fringes, a woeful attempt to fix his garb.

The path would be easier now, that much he knew well.

Little had changed to the landscape since his death. The subtle glow of lumifly lanterns still bathed the Hallownestian corridors in pale light. The vibrant greenery still clawed into the decrepit foundations.

Yet one difference was evident.

The sounds of the Gardens were muted. Fewer chirps and chitters rang through the once noisy paths. There was nary the buzz of the Mossfly, nor the bounce of the Loodle. There was no hum of the Mantis Petra’s wings, nor the subtle growl of a fellow Traitor.

All that remained were the lifeless corpses of insects, strewn throughout their conquered land.

The Traitor Lord lamented the sight of his fallen comrades. Many laid slain by the marks of a defiant nail. Others were taken by the same infectious power they thought would embolden them. Yet the corpses in no way tallied more than a portion of the mantises that had once roamed these lands. Had the others fled?

What did it matter to him now? There was only one mantis that remained for which he unconditionally cared.

The Traitor Lord’s claws gripped the stone siding of the corridor’s columns as he slid down level after level. His movements were lethargic and strained, taking care not to slip off to the stone-hard ground beneath. A familiar cavern of thorns greeted him, the mantis soon working his way into the stowed-away tunnel. A perilous trek, the dense volumes of spikes that safeguarded the passage began to clear before an opening.

A solitary marker, inscribed with the tongue of the mantids, rested peacefully atop the small incline. Delicate, pale flowers, foreign and yet so beautiful, blossomed upon the headstone.

The mantis collapsed to his knees before the grave. Claws gingerly gripped around the light-brown memorial, softly scratching its side. His figure held against it, begging for a hug that would never be returned.

What point was there in empowering anger, when hate had torn his family apart? What point was there in embracing strength, when even that was not enough to save his child?

Quiet filled the alcove, nary a word uttered. Only the faintest patter upon the ivy was heard.

The droplets that fell from the Lord’s mask were swiftly consumed by the soil beneath.


	2. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note regarding naming:
> 
> I've given the Mantis Lords names based on their relative birth. They are quite literally called "the First", "the Second", and "the Third". Each an individual head of a body meant to act as one.
> 
> Traitor Lord himself was referred to as "the Fourth".

A weary grunt slipped from the mantid’s mouth.

Each step drew pain. Each movement brought fatigue. His body buckled under constant strain. His abdomen clenched to squeeze streams of air through his spiracles.

Another cough burned his parched throat.

East. He had to continue East.

Yet his figure screamed for respite.

Thorns dug into the cracks of his chitin. Splotches of acid singed his shell. A misplaced jump handicapped his now hobbling left leg.

His eyes glanced over the stone-paved road. A dais. It was overgrown with shrubbery, but it offered a place to rest.

On the verge of collapse, the Traitor Lord sat down against his tattered abdomen. The signs of the Pale pretender’s touch remained evident; an ornate, chapel-like construct of steel tore into the surrounding greenery. Yet Hallownest’s presence had diminished. He knew he was close now. Close to leaving the bounds of his claimed settlement. Close to escaping the realm of his forced exile.

The mantis raised his claw, gingerly tugging it through the dense brush beside him. It was only when he had carved into a chunk of plant-like chitin that he realized the nature of bushy mass. A Mosskin. Long dead, he presumed. Perhaps the Infection had claimed them too.

The traitor’s gaze darted up. His claw froze.

His black, almond-shaped eyes spotted a distant creature further into the corridor. The being stared back, unflinching in its movement. Straining as it was for the infirm lord, he began to make out distinct body parts.

Tall stature. A slender abdomen. Clawed forearms. …and a teardrop-shaped head.

_A mantis._

The Traitor Lord’s arm jerked at the revelation, caught in the vegetal carcass. At once, the mantis disappeared.

He knew he had to chase them. He knew he had to stop the scout, to snuff its life out to save his. Yet his claw barely budged from the corpse of the Mosskin. His body was drained of breath. The endeavor was impossible.

He knew his life was forfeit.

·

The toadstools of the Wastes had started to gnaw at the verdure of the Gardens.

Having almost asphyxiated the traitor at first entry, the lord slowly reacquainted himself with the thick, fungal air of the caverns. Noxious to foreigners, the smell of spores drew a nostalgic warmth throughout the mantis. It was the least—if not only—bit of pleasantry he could find in his painful journey.

How long had it been? How long ago was it when he begged his sisters to empower their people? How long since their constant belittlement fueled his simmering rage? How long since that brimming anger exploded into bloody rebellion?

So great was his exodus, a spit of defiance against their thrones.

How pitiful was his return now.

He could see the mantises more frequently. The momentary flap of a wing. The peek of a head. Always swift in their disappearance.

They had spared him thus far.

Did they remember him? Did they know who he was? Perhaps not. Perhaps they mistook him for another traitor. A poor, disillusioned warrior, now returning home to his kin.

The Traitor Lord had died, after all.

The marks of his kind within the Fungal Wastes had become more evident. A few moments ago, he had passed a dangling lantern, held together by a knot of rope. Now, a pike, topped with the heads and masks of slain beasts. In the distance, a small hut laid nestled among the caps of large mushrooms.

The mantids were growing braver.

Meters away, a sentry stood alert. His eyes followed the traitor; his body remained at attention. A warrior came to accompany him, her gaze fixated on the defector.

Though more had amassed, a haunting silence followed the Traitor Lord. There was no subtle chitter, no murmur of question. No bark of beratement, no hiss of hostility. His eyes glanced side to side. He passed them now, face to face, a breath away from his former subjects. Deeper into the caverns he walked, deeper into their territory. Yet their cold quiet remained. It tore at him, worse than what their claws could deliver. A chilling, suspenseful foreboding racked his mind, fueled by nothing more than their perpetual stare.

The Traitor Lord halted.

He stared at the mesothorax before him. The abdomen’s hue was lighter than the others. The legs, taller. A peer up, and the dark, cyan-blue fringes of her cloak became visible. In her claw, her nail-lance was held upright.

A chilling paralysis gripped him.

They had known. They had _all_ known who he was. They had kept to the shadows not out of fear. They had withheld their deadly blows not out of ineptitude.

They had done so because of _her._

The Traitor Lord looked into the face of his sister.

The Second. The first among equals. The head of a once-unified body. The face of the Lords. And here she faced him with a soulless look.

A scream bellowed in the mind of the Traitor Lord. Hate burned in him like a blinding light. He had come so far, back from death itself, only to die by the hands of she who had thrown him out.

His shaky claw trembled erratically at his side.

But death did not come. Not yet.

The Second turned around. She raised the palm of her left claw and flicked it forward. Without delay, two warriors moved to each side of the traitor. Their claws gripped the traitor’s raptorials, forcing his arms behind his back.

The Traitor Lord made no retaliatory move. He made no attempt to look back. He made no attempt to resist. The rebellious lord obeyed, wobbling forward at the shove of his captors.

Whispers began to emerge.

The silence had been broken. He could hear them now, murmuring in disbelief. Some questioned his authenticity. Others questioned how he had survived.

The faint whispers grew louder. This place was familiar. The furthest touches of the village. The mantid architecture was more pronounced; doors of sinew, wood, and bone began to line the fungal corridors. And from them popped the heads of their inhabitants.

Hushed notes of curiosity began to metamorphose into subtle snubs and faint hisses.

 _“Traitor,”_ he could make out. His gaze remained forward; his stride was coerced on by the two warriors. _‘“Murderer,”_ came the whisper of another, the crowd growing more discordant.

_“Treasonist.” “Abdicator.” “Barbarian.” “Coward.”_

The legs of the Traitor Lord began to slow. His eyes turned from the back of his sister to a single mantis in the corridor. He stopped before them, forcing the procession to a halt. They were different than the others. They shared his horns, his larger claws. They shared the same, shriveled marks left from the Infection. He looked into the black eyes of his fellow traitor, into the eyes of one who had given all to follow him. One who had suffered all to follow him. The former traitor stared back, his mouth opening slightly.

_“Kin slayer.”_

The crowd erupted in a raucous frenzy. They screamed in anger at the lord, their tongues burning with fire. They lamented his deceased child, spitefully taken from their tribe. They cussed his return; they cursed his existence. They roared with the same hate he had shown before. Those who had fought him called for revenge. Those who had followed him called for his blood.

Traitor Lord sagged his head.

He stumbled as he was pushed forward. His mouth clenched tightly, drawing in shaky breaths. His eyes stared towards the ground; he could not bear the bitter glare of those watching him walk his proverbial green mile.

Paraded through the halls of the Mantis Village like a prisoner of war, the Second commanded the lord to be brought down into the belly of their realm. Scores of onlookers shouted from the overhead village as the two warriors dragged him to the battleground below. They unceremoniously pushed him to the floor, departing from the arena.

The Traitor Lord coughed, his claws pushing his thorax back up. He stared at the ground, shamed to face the consequences of his past.

“Look up.”

The voice of the Second. Its cold, chilling command forced his eyes upwards.

After countless years in spiteful exile, the Traitor Lord faced his sisters. Their glare tore at him with the same hostile burn of their final fight. His eyes cringed away, only to fall back upon their furious glare. Hate coursed throughout his figure with an unparalleled vigor; there was no rejoice in this reunion.

 _“You,”_ the First began, seated furthest to the left. _“You!”_ she continued, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “You _dare_ show your face to us again?”

“Countless killed,” the Third continued on the right, a flat, albeit stinging strike to her words, “hundreds more maimed.” The Third craned her head down, hissing towards her brother. “Was it worth?”

The Traitor Lord kept quiet.

“Behold!” the Third called out, raising her claws up, “Traitor returns! Look at him in all his withered glory. Have your welcoming gift,” she snidely growled, spitting to the ground before him, “worth the same respect you gave us.”

The brother flinched, eyes jerking to the side. The Lords became quiet, awaiting a response.

“…I was trying to help,” the traitor whispered.

“’Trying to _help’?!”_ the First shouted, almost flying off her seat. The Second raised her claw, compelling her sister to remain seated.

“You degenerate, self-absorbed bastard! We _knew_ the dangers. We _told_ you the folly. I _begged_ you to stop. And you _turned on us_ ,” she sneered.

“Remind us again, despoiler, of our weakness, will you?” venomously chided the Third. “How is your ‘kingdom’, pretender? Where is your strength, you shriveled husk? You might have fractured the Thrones, but here we still _stand.”_

The Traitor Lord turned towards the crumbled remains of this throne, another casualty of his struggle.

“…sisters, I was not strong enough—as Lord I needed to—”

“You are _not_ our brother,” snarled the First, drawing the eyes of all three other mantids. A quiet fell between the four. Her heavy breaths accompanied her violent scowl. “…let alone a Lord.”

The remark pierced through the Fourth like the stab of their lance-nails. His claws fell to each side; a pitiful look was returned to his sibling. It broke the fractured remains of his mask.

“I…I just…I wanted,” stuttered the disowned mantis, his voice quavering. "I was protecting my…my child.”

“’ _Protecting’_ her?” the First retorted with a nigh hysterical look.

“You KILLED her!”

“AND YOU KILLED _ME!”_ he spouted, an interjection that silenced his judges. Withheld tears streamed down the white of his face, blotching his mask with the pent emotions of countless years. His thorax trembled; the bitter release gripped his meager body with the same, vicious fervor of the Infection that once ravaged him.

“NONE of you listened! NONE of you helped! I was WEAK. And you gave me NOTHING. You helped strip EVERYTHING from me!” the Fourth bawled, words choked out to the stunned Lords.

“I have NOTHING…I have _nothing_ …I have nothing…” his voice whispered in worn repetition, “not my child, not my throne, not my life, not my Soul—not even my name remains anymore.”

The traitor’s claws fidgeted against the ground. Droplets blotted the dry cloth of his tattered cloak. Those that slipped off him pooled against the black-brick floor of the arena.

The Mantis Lords stared down at the sobbing mess of a once-proud creature.

“And you expect pity,” the Second voiced, breaking her long silence.

The traitor coughed against the lump in his throat, his head shaking slightly. A small, pained smile feebly formed at the quivering lips of his ventral mouth.

“No…not from anyone…let alone you,” he hoarsely answered.

The traitor lowered his head, the agony of the years tearing through him. The madness of the plague—the searing, burning brightness. Even through its blazing haze, through its debilitating, violent nature, he had still sought to keep his child safe. And yet it amounted to nothing. Her punctured body; her bleeding corpse. That was his reward. His pained, hateful sorrow had only been partly for his sisters; he had come to hate himself too.

A silent deliberation befell the three mantises, only the briefest nodding shared between them.

The Second stood up, her sisters following suit.

“You come before us, a traitor to your kind and defiler of your duty.” The Second stared at the former lord, his head drawn from its sunken droop. “You will be judged in accordance with the laws of the Thrones—with the laws of our people.”

“For malicious zeal in the propagation of the Infection,” she voiced, audible for the masses above, “the sentence is death.”

“For high crimes of civil strife and treason against the Thrones,” the Third continued, “the sentence is death.”

“For innumerable counts of slaughter, and the death of _our niece_ ,” the First hissed, pausing momentarily to continue with formality, “…for filicide and the death of royal, the sentence is death.”

From the sides of their thrones, the sisters drew their lances. The First pulled her nail from the left, the Third from her right. The traitor kept his wet gaze in the eyes of the Second, and for a final time, lowered his head. He closed his eyes and accepted his sentence.

He had come back not for conflict, nor for concessions—but perhaps for closure. He had failed his people. He had failed his daughter. Perhaps that was why he sought death from that wayward knight’s nail. Perhaps that was why he relinquished his second chance at life from the Root. Perhaps that was why he had made peace with his punishment now.

For once, his mind had finally cleared. There was no screaming. There was no anger. There was no pain. Nothing, but a single, distant memory—the loving embrace of his child.

Seconds passed. Minutes.

Yet death never came.

The slice of their nails had not pincushioned his carapace.

The mantis opened his eyes, staring at the floor below. He looked up—the Lords still held their lances.

“But we have suffered enough bloodshed,” declared the voice of the Second. “Though our laws demand otherwise, we commute your execution.”

He kept his silence. His claws hung to his side. The pitter-patter against the floor had died. Only the worn, somber remnants of the mantis remained.

They would not even grace him with death.

“You will face your days in shackles and chains. You will do as is told, as prisoner to the Thrones—a prisoner to your tribe betrayed.”

·

The scurrying taps of insect legs had long since petered out. Cloths covered the surfaces of the numerous lumifly lanterns lining the halls. The darkness and still of the night-cycle had brought a quiet to what had otherwise been a turbulent day for the village. Even the Lords, ever present on their seats of power, had returned to their quarters above for rest.

Save for one.

The fourth throne had, for quite some time, been a disappointing sight. Cracked from the conflict between the lords, it had been shattered and debased as permanent reminder of the traitor’s folly.

Suitable, then, that an equally pitiful creature had been bound to its base.

The Traitor Lord had kept still since his sentence. His movements were minimal; his words, none. Legs crossed in his seated position. Behind, arms rested tethered against his back. Overlapping chains of steel links loosely tugged at his figure, granting him minimal space. Even offers of water had been denied by the silence of his unshifting, sulking figure.

Distant taps.

The Traitor Lord exhaled faintly. He did not need to raise his head to understand who was approaching. The sound of the footsteps told him all, even down to which of his sisters it was.

“Look at me.”

The Traitor Lord remained still.

He felt a claw grab his chin, jerking his head up. The First glowered at him, stains below her eyes. Lance held in opposite arm, she shoved his head back down. He returned to his sullen, lowered stare.

“Where is she.”

No response.

“Tell me where her grave is so I can finally say goodbye to my niece.”

Quiet still.

The First drew her lance. With full intent to kill, she shoved the tip against his neck, forcing his head upwards once more.

“So help me, if you do not tell me I’ll cut your head from its body this instant!”

His chin strained up; his throat wheezed in air. Yet he relented to the eldest. He had disappointed her enough.

“In the center of the Pale one’s gardens…in an alcove of spikes.”

The First kept her nail against his neck. He could feel its sharp tip shaking slightly at the subtle, hesitant trembling of her arm.

She lowered her lance and turned around, departing the arena.

Where the First’s footsteps had left, another’s pair now filled their place.

A slow stride. Methodical, martial. Intimidating. A shadow fell over the chained mantis, darkening the already dim environment.

The Traitor Lord closed his eyes, releasing a soft exhale. He could feel the emotionless gaze of the Second upon him, the same, cold-blooded look that had haunted him from his youth. Perhaps she had come to renege on their compassion. Who would question his death, after all? Perhaps they would make it seem a suicide, an apt way for him to join his child.

“Come to kill me?” he whispered from his raspy, weary throat.

She stepped forward. A flinch from the traitor rattled the chains.

The Second knelt to her knees. Her claws moved below his tethered arms and tugged behind his back. Her arms pressed close against his side, her head falling to his shoulder. In shock did the Traitor Lord reopen his eyes, staring beyond her shoulder, into the fungal darkness.

A quite befell the two at her embrace. His eyes, pained as they were, wetted once more.

“Welcome home.”


	3. Remembrance

Frantic footsteps skittered around the narrow halls of the village.

A shout followed the mantis—a hasty apology was returned. Interjections continued after them as they weaved their way between insect and infrastructure, past hanging light and fixed rope, through wooden halls and fungal walls.

Reaching the lowest level of the village, the mantid skidded to a halt before one of the four large doors that lined the corridor. He raised an arm, hovering it over the crossed, claw-like nails adorning its face. He held in a breath to steady his voice, and with a slow, quiet exhale, knocked.

“My Lord?”

From inside, a barely discernable shuffle was the only response received. The mantis knocked again.

“My Lord! The time has come!”

“One moment please!” replied the faint, gentle voice of a female inside.

On the tips of her sleek legs, Kune turned from the closed door. She rubbed her soft, black eyes with the edge of her raptorial, yawning briefly from her interrupted nap. She strode through the quaint, main space of the two-room domicile, carefully passing the numerous ornate, shell-carved pots upon the ground. Entering the open doorway of the den, Kune turned her sights on the two cloth hammocks suspended within. One laid empty. The other sagged, its canvas occupied by its owner. The mantis tip-toed to its side, nudging her claw against the thorax of the sleeping creature.

“Father?”

A groggy, tired mumble answered back.

“Father, the meeting,” she persisted, jabbing her claw at his side once more.

The Mantis Lord grumbled again, turning his head around to face her.

“I am awake…I’m awake,” he murmured.

“No, you’re not,” Kune huffed in irritation.

“You are absolutely right.”

The Lord turned his head back, tucking once more into the folds of his hammock. His irritated child let out an exasperated groan. Lifting both arms, she began to assail her father with a barrage of pokes and jabs.

Judging by the Lord’s immediate response, her antic seemed to have worked.

“Alright, alright! Stop before I send you to pick mushrooms instead,” the Mantis Lord grunted, begrudgingly turning over to get out of the hanging bed.

Slipping out of the sack, the lord stretched his limbs to awaken his figure. The thought of the meeting had nagged at him the previous night-cycle, forcing several hours of sleeplessness from the mantis. Yet he was awake now, with preparations for the day at the forefront of his mind.

Striding into the main room, the Mantis Lord wrapped his claw around a cloak hanging from the wall. He pulled the dark, cyan-blue cloth around his neck, walking over to the waiting figure of his daughter. A head taller than his child, though quickly being surpassed in height, the lord knelt to the ground. At once did Kune’s forearms work to adjust the wayward folds of his garment.

“Who taught you to be so irritating in the morning?” the Mantis Lord mumbled.

“Aunt Three says I take after you,” Kune cheekily responded, causing a deep exhale from her father.

“You take after her sass too,” he murmured, tilting his head to the side as she brushed away a wrinkle. “And it’s ‘Lord Three,’ Kune, don’t be disrespectful.”

She gave a pout in return, drawing her raptorials back from his cloak. Brushing his own arms over in a quick, albeit meticulous scrutiny of her work, the Mantis Lord turned his attention to the cream white ribbons on his daughter. In slower, more methodical motions, the tips of his claws tugged the ribbon-like strands of her cloak in place, lining them up as precisely as he could.

“Do you remember what we planned?” the lord asked, tilting his head closer to better work.

“Yes,” Kune responded, her arms folding behind her back. “I still think this is a trifling matter.”

Her father cocked an eye up, rather impressed by her choice of words.

“’Trifling’ or not young lady, you’re learning the ins and outs of being a lord. It’s not always claws and nails, sometimes you need to use your words too,” he lectured, patting down the green sleeves of her cloak. “…unfortunate as it is.”

Kune swatted at the continued fuss of her father’s claws. Capitulating to her irritation, the Mantis Lord stood up.

“Did you get food?”

“I had some before you slept. And I’m alright, I can take care of myself—I’m not a child,” answered his child.

The lord scoffed, placing a claw up to his chest in faux offense.

“Well _excuse_ me for caring so much about the dear Lady Kune! Oh Thrones, punish this poor, insolent bug!” he lamented in quite the dramatic fashion.

“ _Dad!”_ scoffed Kune, dragging the edge of her claw against her face.

“Alright, alright,” giggled the lord, moving before the abashed mantis to give her a close hug. His forearm patted her back, ventral mouth placing a paternal kiss against her head. “And I know you aren’t a child anymore. It doesn’t mean I don’t care for you any the less.”

Kune mumbled against his thorax, yet nonetheless returned the embrace. She tugged her claws briefly against his mesothorax, before pulling her frame away. The lord moved his arms back, claws folded behind him—yet another habit Kune seemingly took after.

“Are we off?” voiced the lord.

“I hope so,” snickered his daughter.

“Well, come, come!” he motioned towards the door, “I still need to tell your aunts we’re on our way.”

Claw having slowly dragged him down the wall of bulbous toadstools, the Fourth paced to the stone paving of the arena, bowing his head before his sisters.

In synchronous response did the head of each sister bow back, affirming the lord’s greeting.

“Surprised you awoke this early. We half expected you to sleep through the entire ordeal,” muttered the Third with a wave of her forearm.

“Oh, don’t listen to her, Four,” the First responded, a warm, cheerful look towards her brother. “She’s been upset this whole morning.”

“As she is every morning,” the Fourth mumbled, drawing a snide look from the offended sister, and a subtle giggle from the First.

The Second raised her claw. At once, a quiet fell over each of them.

“Brother. The meeting,” the Second spoke, swift and to the point.

“Yes, sister. I’ve come to inform that Kune and I are on our way to the Pale pretender’s entourage. We’ll meet and speak on the terms we discussed, and then return before the night-cycle.”

“Do _not_ forget the demands I told you, in the _exact_ way I framed them,” the Third intruded, “I put in too much effort for a foolish mistake.”

The Fourth nodded in understanding.

“Go then,” commanded the Second, motioning her claw forward. “We expect results.”

“Of course,” he responded, giving a final, exiting bow to the other three lords.

“Take care!” shouted the First to the departing image of her brother, “And please take care of Kune!”

·

“How far is it?” asked Kune, venturing through a small grove of long-stalked, rubbery fungi.

“Not too long now,” responded her father, glancing around. “That road they built should be down this corridor.”

“A scout told me they erected some big statue of one of their Great Knights!” she exclaimed with sudden interest. “Are…we going to come across one of them?”

The lord passingly glanced towards his child from the corner of his eye. He took careful note of her tone, seemingly laden with admiration for the foreign warriors.

“We might. Why?”

“The stories I’ve heard,” she began, pausing momentarily in her words, “they sound…otherworldly. Interesting, valiant…incredible heroes.”

The Fourth released a deep sigh, keeping his eyes fixated forward. It was a troubling notion to hear her so enthralled with the enemy.

“Kune,” he voiced quietly, “you need to be careful. They are not your friends, nor your benefactors. They’re fingers on the Pale King’s hand, helping him claw and carve through both our land and our people.”

“But—"

“Just…” the Mantis Lord interjected softly, a worried, yet insistent stress to his voice. “Just be careful, and avoid them, please? I’d never be able to live with myself if you got hurt.”

Kune kept quiet, her gaze turning forward. Her antennae drooped slightly at the staunch opposition of her father. The Mantis Lord turned to see the sullen look of his daughter, a sting of pity tugging at him. His claw lowered down, taking hold of his child’s arm.

“…but…when we do see them, know that I can easily take on all five of them at once,” he chuckled, a bright look coloring over Kune’s face once more.

And on did the Mantis Lord and his child march, on to the gates of their mortal enemy with resolute pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funnily enough, my name for the Traitor Lord's child was a complete accident. I'd originally thought Joni Kunelius, who backed Joni, also backed the Child--ergo, where Kune would come from. Alas, I was mistaken, but the name stuck.


End file.
